


Aube

by zaemitgetta



Category: Pentagon (Korea Band), Triple H (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eos!HyunA, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hell, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mentioned Adachi Yuto, Mentioned Jung Wooseok, Morpheus!Hyojong, Multi, Musaeus!Hui, Phantasos!Wooseok, Phobetor!Yuto, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 08:38:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17077007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaemitgetta/pseuds/zaemitgetta
Summary: Hyojong is the winged God of Dreams, who meets Hui, a mysterious lyre-player who does not (cannot?) sleep. Of a common past, they spend a warm summer night talking as they await the arrival of the Goddess of Dawn.





	Aube

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a twt au I started, crossposting here. 
> 
> To be presented in three parts, each from a diff character's POV. Lots of fluff, comfort & a lil tiny bit of angst.
> 
> Dedicated to @burngrl and to all the Trinities, Wildflowers and Universe. 💜
> 
> Thank u to @idleNefelibata for beta-reading! 
> 
> Inspired by the young poet Rimbaud's poem "Aube."

J'ai embrassé l'aube d'été.  
I embraced the summer dawn.

Hyojong silently descended upon the quiet hilltop village, his wings folding behind him as he adjusted the small cloth bag hanging off the belt that kept his black robes together. It was past midnight on a calm summer eve, the scent of hyacinth hanging in the air. He remembers the story of how the flower came to be. The god Apollo had fallen for the mortal Hyacinthus, only to end up killing him in an accident. Like most of his kind, the god could not bear the loss of his lover and in his grief took the young man’s blood and turned it into the flower, the heady fragrance of which was enveloping Hyojong, making him feel warm.   
He was not of the belief that mortals were such fragile creatures; only, that they became so when played with by gods.

The God of Dreams himself scanned the village and its sleeping souls as he perched atop the roof of a small house. Inside was a young child, about four or five years old, lying in their bed, eyes closed yet possessively clutching a doll to their chest, fitfully kicking at their blankets. A small smile crept on Hyojong’s lips as he took a handful of golden dust from his bag and blew it in the direction of the sleeping child. 

Hyojong’s brothers would be in other parts of town by now, endowing nightmares or phantasms, although Yuto had been complaining earlier at how the warm night didn’t favor bad dreams. Wooseok embraced his twin’s waist, assuring him he’d allow a little bit of terror into the fantasies he planned on giving that night, and the towering pair went on their way.

He flitted from house to house, gazing at the sleeping figures huddled together, their shapes lending not a clue as to whether they were men or women in the darkness, and blessed each of them with dreams. Some people took dreams better than others, but in all instances, Hyojong’s golden dust helped settle them down or let them sink further into a restful slumber.

The quiet of the sleeping village was broken by gleeful shrieks coming from a distance. Hyojong tilted his head with a furrowed his brow, straining his ear before picking up the distant but unmistakable sound of a lyre. He traced the noise to a clearing not far into the village’s woods, where a large fire was set up by the youths dancing around it. Hyojong flew closer, softening the rippling of his wings although he was sure it was drowned out by the noise of the revelers before him. And by the music.

What beautiful music it was. Save for Apollo, and perhaps, Orpheus of Thrace (may the gods rest his soul after he had been torn apart by the Maenads), he had never heard a lyre played so arrestingly. He gazed at the scene before him and found the source of the entrancing melody: a man of slight stature and, curiously, purple hair, sitting atop a rock that placed him a few feet above the chaos. The man’s delicate hands flew deftly over the strings of the lyre, sending waves of energy through the air and into Hyojong’s body. He felt a shiver run down his spine and his eyes closing, fully taking in the music created by the stranger’s hands. 

Was it a stranger? He moved to another branch, closer to the rock, to get a better look at the man’s face. It did not seem as strange as he first thought. In fact, peering into the man’s features felt like trying to remember the exact word for something so obvious, so close but so difficult to grasp at the same time. His skin radiated a golden glow against the firelight, chiseled jaw casting shadows on his slender neck as the flames licked up towards the sky. He had gentle eyes, a strong, straight nose and rosebud lips, which the man then parted as he began to sing.

Hyojong’s eyes widened as his grip on the branch under him and the tree trunk beside him grew tighter. While the man’s lyre-playing was beautiful, his voice was simply magnificent. It started out warm and low, full of soul in a way that Hyojong had not expected to hear from such a young man. After a few lines, his voice slowly rose until it was possibly the most magnificent sound Hyojong had ever heard, notes soaring in the air, taking shape and frolicking like birds in the warm summer breeze. He felt his face go soft, relaxing, and yet, his heart clenched, the stranger’s voice surrounding him in wonder and a fuzzy feeling so familiar yet so foreign, in the same breath.

As the lyre-player’s voice rose, so did the heat of the crowd. Pairs and triads and groups began to form, holding each other as they swayed, illuminated by the fire, emboldened by the drink that they had been partaking. Hyojong heard laughter and revelry, but he also heard shrieks and arguing and curses, as some refused the advances of others. He looked at the lyre-player, who was also looking at the crowd but was seemingly unaffected by the goings-on before him. 

While other gods may have not cared much, or perhaps, may have delighted in what was about to happen among these mortals, he was not in the mood for debauchery. At least, not yet.

Hyojong reached for his pouch of golden dust collected from the poppies outside Hypnos’ cave and mixed with just the right amount of sand from the river Lethe, and cast it out among the revelers. The ones who were most intoxicated fell first, closing their eyes and dozing off in the middle of conversations. Hyojong climbed down the tree, as softly and as quietly as he could. He shed his wings and walked among the crowd, towards the man with the purple hair.

Slowly, each one of the revelers gave in to drowsiness, wrapped in the warmth of the raging fire. Hyojong walked up to the brutes and threw golden dust at them. They fell to their knees and crashed their heads on the grass. He looked at their would-be victims and smiled his kind smile, instructing them to go home, albeit in a daze. 

Hyojong arrived in front of the rock, and looked up at the lyre-player, who became so engaged in his singing that he did not notice the crowd falling asleep one by one. When he did, however, he furrowed his brow and looked at the man who was standing before him, hand on a small pouch hanging off his belt. He smiled.

“Hello, Morpheus,” the lyre-player said, causing Hyojong’s eyes to grow wide again, slightly blanching at the use of his ancient name. “You should know the dust doesn’t work on me.”


End file.
